On
the
Death
of
a
justly
admir'd
AUTHOR
.
WHEN
pale-ey'd
Winter
rules
the
mourning
Fields
,
And
shiv'ring
Nature
to
his
Sceptre
yields
,
Dejected
Earth
is
strip'd
of
all
her
Pride
,
And
sculking
Flowers
in
her
Bosom
hide
;
Through
naked
Groves
afflicted
Warblers
fly
,
And
Storms
of
Hail
come
rattling
through
the
Sky
:
But
when
soft
April
lifts
her
downy
Wing
,
And
calls
the
blushing
Infants
of
the
Spring
,
The
verdant
Groves
their
wonted
Charms
regain
,
And
laughing
Nature
paints
the
gaudy
Plain
;
Sweet-scented
Vi'lets
take
their
usual
Blue
,
And
the
fair
Primrose
drinks
the
Morning
Dew
;
Again
revive
their
Beauty
and
their
Smell
,
But
Man
once
blasted
takes
a
long
Farewel
.
Ah
silly
Muse
!
thy
fond
Complaints
give
o'er
,
Departed
Sylvius
shall
return
no
more
:
No
Charms
of
Verse
can
win
the
heav'nly
Mind
,
Back
to
the
slighted
Case
she
left
behind
;
Not
tho'
each
Line
shou'd
make
our
Bosoms
glow
,
Like
his
grand
Numbers
,
and
as
sweetly
flow
.
His
Name
shall
last
to
warm
a
distant
Age
,
Nor
want
th'
Assistance
of
a
Title-page
;
For
his
bright
Lines
are
by
their
Lustre
known
,
Ev'n
Homer
shines
with
Beauties
not
his
own
:
Unpolish'd
Souls
,
like
Codrus
or
like
mine
,
Fill'd
with
Ideas
that
but
dimly
shine
,
Read
o'er
the
Charms
of
his
instructive
Pen
,
And
taste
of
Raptures
never
known
till
then
.
Ill-nature
listen'd
,
and
approv'd
the
Song
;
And
blushing
Envy
check'd
her
burning
Tongue
:
Happy
are
those
,
tho'
Grief
their
Hours
attend
,
Whom
once
he
honour'd
with
the
Name
of
Friend
;
Whose
pleasing
Thoughts
at
least
may
ponder
o'er
The
smiling
Days
,
that
shall
return
no
more
:
Ev'n
we
condemn'd
at
distance
to
admire
,
Bewail
the
Hopes
that
with
our
Guide
expire
:
Ah
!
who
shall
now
our
rustick
Thoughts
refine
,
And
to
grave
Sense
and
solid
Learning
join
Wit
ever
sparkling
,
and
the
Sweets
of
Rhyme
?
Farewel
,
ye
Themes
,
which
none
but
he
can
sing
,
And
sylvan
Scenes
that
wear
eternal
Spring
;
Fair
Nymphs
,
that
in
his
fairer
Paintings
glow
,
And
ye
smooth
Lines
that
Sylvius
taught
to
flow
:
But
hush
,
sad
Muse
,
thy
dull
Complaint
give
o'er
:
Hence
sigh
in
secret
,
and
his
Loss
deplore
,
Who
ne'er
,
O
ne'er
,
shall
grace
our
Regious
more
.